


A lighter physical effort

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22975474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Grand Moff Tarkin told you to come to him with any staff-related matter of a more … personal nature. Now that you do, he seems reluctant to provide what you desire. At least to begin with. PWP.
Relationships: Brierly Ronan/Reader, Wilhuff Tarkin/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	A lighter physical effort

**Author's Note:**

> This is another blatantly self-indulgent spanking-as-foreplay fic. The story can be read as a standalone, but is also a very late continuation of “May I help you with that, sir?”   
> Enjoy!
> 
> Proofread by the amazing Cassandra1. Thank you so much, my dear!

You study the man at his desk. As always, being near Tarkin sends a thrill of excitement down your spine. You can’t see his face properly from where you stand, but you know it well enough to fill in the details. Aquiline nose, elegant eyebrows, cheekbones so sharp they could cut. Not that you’ll ever touch them – that is an intimacy well beyond your hopes. But his hands, these long, slender fingers moving over the screen… you know them well. You sigh quietly. It’s been several minutes since you entered his office, but he has yet to acknowledge your presence. Why ever did he let you in if he’s not even going to cast a glance in your direction?

“Why are you here?” The voice is tired, but tinged with curiosity. Tarkin still doesn’t look up from his work.

“You said I could come, sir. Director Krennic’s assistant?” You’re talking too fast, already making a fool of yourself.

Tarkin lifts his head and stares at you, scrutinizing your face for several seconds before he resumes working. “I remember you well enough. State your business.”

This isn’t going at all the way you’d imagined. “I came to report, sir. Of our progress, mine and Director Krennic’s.”

“That isn’t necessary.” He taps a few more commands, then stills. “On the other hand, do tell me.” He pushes the data pad away and leans back in his chair, then leans forward again and puts his hands back on the desk, steepled. He pierces you with his gaze. “Did I not instruct you not to bother Director Krennic with staff matters?”

“You did, sir. It’s just that he … insists.”

“I see. Has he become any more adept at handling his subordinates?”

“There is much less friction between us now that he – follows your example, sir.” You blush. “I’ve become rather well acquainted with his desk.” Tarkin’s silence prompts you to continue. “We have weekly performance reviews, sir. I’m good, so there’s never any need for the – other – thing. He rewards me with his fingers, and then, if I beg enough, he –.” It suddenly feels awkward to say it.

“Fucks you, does he? I hardly believe it takes very much begging.”

“You’re correct, sir. Director Krennic is always enthusiastic.” You smile. Even here, now, just thinking about him is enough to make you twitch.

“Impatient is more like it.” Tarkin scoffs. “I believe it’s tolerable as long as the intended result is reached.”

“It is,” you hurry to admit, with a serious face. “I am very satisfied with my position.”

Tarkin nods. “Which brings us back to the previous topic. Why are you here?”

“I need more.” You stare him right in the eye.

Tarkin doesn’t reply, but gets up from his chair and walks around his desk. He pushes a button on the wall panel and the door locks with a soft click. His face is expressionless.

“Eyes ahead,” he says, when you turn your head to follow him as he walks. He stops behind you.

“What precisely is it that you think you need from me?”

His voice is neutral, blank, but the closeness makes you tremble. It is as if every little hair on your body can sense the air of control he carries with him. He straightens your collar at the back, his fingers cold, hard. And yet – 

“Is it discipline?” he asks silkily. His finger trails along your spine, following it downwards as you struggle with your breathing. You want to answer, yet speaking now would ruin the moment, so you don’t. The hand pauses at the small of your back, then rests on your rump, gently, suggestively. You’re tempted to say ‘yes’ just to remain under this spell, but before you can, he lifts his hand. “Or do you just need to be fucked?” His voice is hard now, cracking the air like a whip. His hand comes down on your bottom, the suddenness making you jump and turn to look at him.

“The latter, I think, sir.” You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth. It’s him you need, and for him to do both those things to you, or any of them.

“I see.” He purses his lips. “Then I shall invite myself the next time Director Krennic intends to chastise you. I have no doubt the occasion will present itself.” There’s belittlement in his tone now.

“Sir! I’m good! We work well together! He doesn’t have to –”

“You would do well not to lie to me. He needs no other reason than your asking for it. You crave it even now. Tell me, which is more frequent in your daydreams? Bending over my desk or being taken over my knee?”

Heat rises to your cheeks; the need to be touched is as agonizing as your inability to speak your desire.

“You may just as well tell me now,” he continues. “I may not be in the mood to ask questions once we begin.”

You take a deep breath and stare at a point over his left shoulder. “It’s both, sir.” You can do this, it’s no different from reporting on work. “Both those positions, and the other thing, any of them, all of them. Just you touching me, in any way you choose.” You glance at him from the corner of the eye.

“Are you sure Director Krennic satisfies you?” He speaks slowly, each word carrying weight.

You wet your lips. “We are very compatible, sir. It’s just that he’s unavailable – he’s been travelling for three standard weeks now.” That is not the full truth; despite your attraction to Krennic, the desire for Tarkin has refused to subside. Ever since that first time, you’ve wanted him again. You clench your hands to keep them from shaking with anxiety. “You said that I could turn to you if I needed to. Please don’t send me away.”

Tarkin stares at you. His withering gaze shows clearly how foolish you were to go to him, to impose on his time, to assume he takes any special interest in you. And yet, he issued the invitation. You will not leave until he tells you to.

“Very well,” he says, and returns to the chair behind the desk. “You have made the right decision. Whether Director Krennic agrees, we shall discover shortly, and then, maybe, I will oversee your dealings with him.”

“Of course. Thank you, sir.” It’s still not clear where this will lead, but every minute he allows you to remain takes you one step closer to your goal.

“Who oversees your work in Director Krennic’s absence?” he asks.

“Brierly Ronan.” You sigh. The man seems competent enough, but in comparison with his superior he’s just so lacklustre.

“Brierly?” Tarkin pronounces the name with displeasure.

“Colonel Ronan, sir. Assistant Director.”

“And is he not a competent temporary replacement?”

“I’m sure he does the best he can, but it just isn’t the same. He doesn’t know about the weekly meetings, and frankly speaking, I’m glad.”

“Why?”

“He’s a bureaucrat through and through – boring, meticulous, and a stickler for rules. There’s no spark in him.”

“He sounds like the type of officer we need more of. Director Krennic’s flamboyance may be entertaining in moderate measure, but it’s hardly useful.”

Tarkin presses a button. “Colonel Ronan to my office. Now.” Just like Krennic, he doesn’t need to say his name. Everyone recognizes the voice.

Your face falls. Why did he have to that? It’s not like Brierly Ronan has anything to do with this at all. His presence will ruin everything, and if you ever had a chance of getting what you wanted from Tarkin, it’s gone now.

Tarkin clears his throat. “You will go over my knee as soon as I’ve had a small talk with the Assistant Director.”

Really? Then all is not lost! “Thank you, sir,” you tell him, trying not to grin too blatantly. With that prospect in view, you’re perfectly willing to endure any amount of conversation with the dull colonel.

While waiting, Tarkin picks up his data pad and resumes working, quietly and efficiently. You stand as still as you can, observing how his hands move, the way his fingers tap and glide over the screen. The prospect of Ronan finding out about your extracurricular activities with Krennic isn’t something you relish, but he will hardly be scandalised. Assistant Director Ronan always seems ready to praise, or to gloss over, anything his superior does. How Krennic can stand having such a bootlicker around would be a mystery if it were not for the Director’s insatiable need for appreciation. In fact, he could do much worse. You may not care for Ronan’s personality, but you trust his loyalty and professionalism.

The doors glide open with a swoosh and Ronan enters the room with the flair worthy of Krennic’s deputy, despite his shorter cape. Tarkin waves him forward and puts away the data pad.

“Colonel,” he says when Ronan is standing beside you, “your member of staff here requires an adjustment of attitude.”

“Certainly, Governor, if you say so. I must admit I have not had reason to complain – her work is of the high level to be expected from anyone in Director Krennic’s service.”

“She doesn’t respect you.”

“Oh, I do,” you insert, “of course I do –”

Ronan lifts a hand, cutting off your protest.

“Is that so?” he asks Tarkin. His eyes narrow and he stares at you. “In that case, I will personally escort her to the training facility at the first opportunity. A refresher course on command structure should fix that. The stipulated payment reduction is usually very efficient motivation.”

“No,” Tarkin says. “Spank her.”

“Sir?” Ronan looks dumbfounded.

“You heard me. Spank her,” Tarkin repeats.

“Sir, with all respect, this goes against regulation IV, section G27, which specifically states that corporal punishment –”

“– is strictly forbidden. I wrote that regulation. This is not a punishment. It is merely a manner of instruction that has proven effective with this particular member of your staff.” He lowers his voice. “She happens to relish it.”

Ronan is clearly shocked. He clasps his hands, practically wringing them. “Is this –”

“Director Krennic practises it with her, yes. Do as I say!”

Ronan looks relieved. “Well, in that case –.” He turns to you with a resolve in his face that you recognise well. This is Ronan about to bring efficient administration to a new level.

“Bend over the desk,” he says, then glances at Tarkin before he continues, “and pull down your trousers.”

You get into position, slowly and deliberately, hesitating only when you get to your underwear. This is not what you came for. It is Tarkin you want, not this – this – imposter! Will he even be able to carry it through?

“Keep those on.” Tarkin’s voice cuts through your thoughts. His words are calm, but tiny hints of enthusiasm are creeping into his features.

You rest your elbows on Tarkin’s desk. If he won’t touch you himself, you can at least look at him and make him see what he is missing.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Sir,” Ronan responds, but it’s you Tarkin is looking at. You incline your head.

Tarkin gives a small nod and Ronan lands his hand on your bottom. The suddenness of it makes you squirm, but the feeling is not unpleasant. He does it again and again, in quick succession, and the familiar sting goes straight to your core. It is dulled a little by his gloves and your underwear, and his aim is not as precise as Director Krennic’s, but, ah, it works. Each time you wince, Tarkin’s eyes seem to shine a little brighter.

“That should be enough.” Tarkin’s command comes much too soon. “Well done. Now, finger her.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Ronan’s voice is a far cry from his usual self-righteous tone.

“Push your finger into her, gather the evidence of her enjoyment and show me.”

Ronan gives no audible reply, but he nudges your thighs apart and pulls the crotch of your underwear aside. You shiver at his gloved hand against your inner thigh and cannot hold back a moan when his finger enters you. He pulls back and pushes into you a couple of more times, each time deeper than the one before. It’s impossible not to want more.

“Stand still!” His other hand lands on your backside with a smack that resounds through the room. Wetness gushes from you, his finger gliding between your folds with even greater ease.

“So, you really do enjoy this,” Ronan says in a low voice as he continues to finger you while his other hand roams over your bottom. His manner of speaking holds an element of surprise, but more of satisfaction. He goes faster and you’re almost past vocalizing already, your mouth left open in a silent moan as your eyes begin to glaze over. You’re still looking at Tarkin, but it’s getting increasingly difficult to keep your attention on him. Ronan is learning fast.

“Enough,” Tarkin declares.

Ronan immediately withdraws his hands and you suddenly feel cold and alone. Tarkin’s eyes are distant now. You close your mouth with an audible pop as you straighten your back. Tarkin purses his lips.

Ronan has noticed nothing and demonstrates his slick finger with the modest smile of someone who has never failed a test.

“Excellent, Colonel,” Tarkin says, a lot less heartily than one might expect for a mission carried out with such obvious success. “Thank you, you may leave.”

Ronan gives a formal nod and turns around stiffly. For a moment, he appears undecided what to do about the wetness on his glove, but then he sticks his finger into his mouth with a confident smirk that brings another rush of heat to your nether regions.

Tarkin rolls his eyes at the swish of the cape but doesn’t speak until Ronan has left the room.

“Come here.” He pats his thighs.

You step out of your trousers and approach him cautiously.

“Have I displeased you, sir?”

“You haven’t.” Emphasis on the first word. It’s Ronan then, perhaps a little too adept at following orders.

Bending your knees, you drape yourself across his lap and immediately relax, closing your eyes. This is what you’ve longed for. The smell of him, the feel of his uniform against your skin, his boot as you clutch it for purchase. His left hand rests on the small of your back, a pleasant weight. You breathe slowly, deeply. This. Even if all he did was to let you lie like this, you’d still leave content.

The first swat makes your eyes fly open. His right hand lands briefly, it bounces back, and then he rests it on your bottom. He repeats it, and then again. After the third time, he strokes your heated skin gently. You feel warm inside, cared for, special. The hand quests lower, glides over your upper thighs, dipping teasingly between them. And then – more spanks, light, bouncy, stinging in just the right way.

The hand comes between your thighs again, slowly. You shiver and part your legs ever so slightly. He has an excellent view now, of what he’s done and of your arousal. His fingers glide over your puffed-up folds, rubbing them until you squirm and inch your legs further apart. The invitation is not accepted at once; it earns you another couple of spanks, harder ones that drag you back to reality.

Tarkin is panting now, his breaths coming faster and shallower. Something is poking rather insistently at your thigh. He wants you. This realisation, although not unexpected, fills you with giddiness. His left hand creeps lower, finds the hem of your tunic and pulls it up a little. The right one ghosts along your thigh, skimming the edges of your sex but never quite getting there. Each time he comes close, you tense up a little, holding your breath while his fingers caress your skin, willing him to touch you there. Each time, he pauses and moves away. The cruelty of it! You beg and whine and the slow process starts over again. 

Until you give up. Until you’re fully relaxed. And then, when you wait calmly, there’s a slight pressure on your back and you tilt your hips a tiny bit and those fingers don’t stop but go all the way in. You cry out with fulfilment and he doesn’t react, but continues to fuck you with his fingers and then his other hand starts tapping your bottom with gentle little spanks and it’s so fucking perfect and all you ever needed and it could go on forever please don’t stop and he doesn’t and yes and now and –

It is the most powerful orgasm you’ve experienced for a long time.

Tarkin holds you through it, removing his hand only when you lift your head. As you rise clumsily, you note the prominent bulge in his trousers. You ought to be satisfied, and yet –

“Would you –”, you begin, but he rises before you can extend the offer. 

“There,” he says and nudges you towards the desk. “Up you go.” He taps the back of your thigh and you lift your leg until your knee is resting on the top of the table. Your other foot is still on the floor and you support your upper body on your bent elbows, your hands grasping the far end of the desk. You can feel Tarkin behind you, the coarse material of his uniform brushing against your skin. He presses himself against you, hard, and the way he moulds into you is a perfect fit. Perfect, and already so unsatisfying.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Patience.” He pushes against you once more and you clench around nothing. Then that sweet pressure against your nether regions is gone. Tarkin is removing his belt, the clasp clanking against the back of his chair. He keeps the tunic on; only his trousers are open, pulled down just enough to let him free his cock. Even when you turn your head as far as the position allows you, only his arms are visible.

“Eyes ahead,” he mouths. The cruelty of it! You reluctantly turn back towards the front of the room. The carpet of nondescript grey, the same as everywhere. The shelf with ugly souvenirs. The door – did he lock it again after Ronan’s departure? What if someone comes in, what if Ronan has left something and comes back, what if Krennic has returned early and comes looking for you?

Tarkin’s hand is cold against your hip, his grip steady and sure. You bite your lip. Any second now and he will enter you. Any second and the waiting will be over, and all will be right again. You shiver at the brush of his sleeve against your thigh, and then –

His skin is warm. He enters you without hurry and if this moment could go on forever you wouldn’t ask for anything ever again, it’s perfection, fulfilment, exquisite –

There’s the slightest grunt, then he stills again. Seated, filling you to the hilt. You open your mouth, meaning to remain quiet, but this time there’s no stopping the keening whine from escaping your lips. This – this anticipation is killing you! If he doesn’t move, soon, now, you will come on your own. It’s so close now, and if you’re to hold it off any longer, he will have to do something.

He withdraws, and then his hips jerk forward again, crushing the front of his thighs against the back of yours. He is silent, his thrusts shallow but forceful. There is nothing to indicate his pleasure, but his breathing comes slightly faster, as if this is nothing out of the ordinary, just a lighter physical effort he indulges in daily. Perhaps it is.

He picks up speed, only a little, and the angle is slightly different now. Pressure builds inside you again and you will erupt any moment, just a little more, just a little, faster, harder. You arch your back and cant your hips, pushing back against him as you cry out. His grip around your hips, both of them, tightens, and then he stills. He gives another grunt, just once. You clench around him, willing him to remain inside. He does not.

Instead, he fastens his clothes. It’s time to go.

You begin to slide off the desk, but his hand on the small of your back stops you.

“Stay.”

His touch is light, just a fingertip against your spine. It is all that is needed. He resumes dressing and you want to turn around, to get a glimpse of his face, to try and understand what he’s thinking. Why he wants you to stay when he’s obviously done with you. You’re not complaining, it’s not that. He’s given you what you came for, and more. It’s just that –

You want more. Already you’re longing for his touch again, and if you cannot have that, to look at him. For reassurance, or some sort of evidence that this has indeed happened. As if you can’t feel him still, on your heated skin and in the cold fluid gathering at your entrance. Is that why you’re still here? For his viewing pleasure? The urgency to turn around is strong, yet you do not. The wish to please him is stronger. You rest your forehead against the desk and listen.

Boots against carpet. He’s in front of you now. Dare you lift your head?

You do. His eyes are steel, but there’s a flicker in them. His hand strokes your hair gently, then grips it and forces your head higher. He leans closer and –

His thin lips are firm, but softer than you expected. The kiss is too brief to leave any aftertaste other than a craving for more.

He doesn’t meet your gaze afterwards, only grips your hair harder until a thousand tiny needles itch and burn your scalp. When he lets go, you miss it. If only –

It is too late, he has turned away already, his hands clasped behind his back. Even against his pale skin, his knuckles are white.

“You ought to leave now,” he says. “Immediately.”


End file.
